


Not the Donuts

by themthere_taterthings



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: BAMF Clint Barton, BAMF Tony Stark, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Couch Cuddles, Hurt Clint Barton, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Sick Tony Stark, Torture, donut run
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-01 23:39:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10203455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themthere_taterthings/pseuds/themthere_taterthings
Summary: Clint just wanted donuts and he happened to drag his crush along but then there's grenades and kidnapping and torture... he should have stayed in bed.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Not really much graphic violence but there's some torture so just in case... :)

Clint stares intently into the cupboard, willing the sparse contents to change into something more appetizing. He stares for another minute, glaring daggers at the lone tub of ‘organic rolled oats’ (w _hat the fuck is that even?)_ before growling in aggravation.

“Thor!” He yells as loud as he can. “Thanks for eating the last pop-tart you jerk!” Slamming the cupboard door shut, he leaps off of the counter landing gracefully on his feet. “Jarvis? When’s the next grocery order set to come in?” Maybe he’s in luck and sugary breakfast deliciousness is coming to the Tower in the next hour.

“This week’s groceries are scheduled to arrive this evening at five pm.” Stark’s AI answers him blithely and Clint can’t help but analyze it for some form of mockery or smugness. If there is any, the machine is just too good.

“Donuts. I need donuts,” Clint announces to the empty room. He has no idea where the rest of the team is or if it’s even remotely the time of day when donuts are available. He’s been in hibernation mode since the last mission; i.e. sleep, eat, repeat. If he can’t have pop-tarts, he’ll have the next best thing. Donuts.

The elevator dings just as he reaches it and Tony walks out, head buried in a tablet, stumbling directly into him with a surprised grunt.

“Hey! You busy? Let’s do donuts!” Clint grabs the tablet from Tony and tosses it on the nearby table that’s only purpose is to hold up a strangely shaped decorative vase.

“No! Yes! Yes, Clint I’m extremely busy,” Tony protests loudly but Clint tucks his arm under the other man’s and drags him back into the elevator.

“You can never be too busy for donuts. Besides, you’re not in a suit, so you’re not even legitimately busy,” Clint says, plucking at Tony’s dark blue quarter-zip sweater that’s paired with charcoal slacks. It’s not exactly casual, like his own hoody and jeans but he’s not wrapped in untold layers that probably cost more than Clint’s old apartment. Tony only dresses like that when he has a press release to attend or business meetings for Stark Industries.

So what if Clint can tell Tony’s schedule from his outfits alone? It’s hard not to notice the man when he looks that good in a suit.

As drool-worthy as Tony is when dressed to the nines, Clint’s favorite look is what he likes to call ‘workshop zombie Tony.’ When he’s spent way too many hours in his science cave and emerges with a wild, feverish energy burning in his eyes, hair mussed and free of product, smelling of sweat and torched metal. It should be gross, but it isn’t. It doesn’t hurt that his workshop jeans are well-worn and threadbare, exposing the barest tantalizing hints of tan flesh every so often with his usual tank top making up for the lack with plenty of toned bicep.

Clint can admit that Tony is an attractive man, he’s just having trouble with the fact that he’s a little more than smitten with a teammate, roommate, one of the world’s most eligible bachelors and definitely one of the most brilliant minds of their time. It’s a bit overwhelming and generally leaves him feeling less than adequate.

Times like now, though, when he’s just Tony, bottom lip sticking out in a pout at the loss of his tablet, but not resisting as Clint steers him with an arm slung around his shoulders, he feels content, happy. It’s unusual, but he can’t get enough.

“Fine. Donuts, but quickly,” Tony grouses, crossing his arms across his chest but leaning into Clint’s side anyway. Clint wrestles down a small bubble of glee at the extra contact and just barely keeps himself from tucking his chin against the top of Tony’s head. “Hill just sent me some files they recovered during some mission. I didn’t bother reading the whole email, but they need help decrypting them ASAP.”

“Don’t they have their own monkeys for that?”

“Uuggghhh…yes, but I owe Hill a favor and she’s cashing it. Have you ever tried to argue with that woman? She’s a brick wall!”

Clint snorts as they exit the elevator and the building chatting about their formidable new SHIELD liaison and the fact that she technically works for Tony but has him doing things for her. It’s actually really nice day out with bright spring sun shining down. It’s probably closer to lunch than breakfast but there’s a Dunkin’ down the street so that’s where he heads.

It’s only when they’re a block away from the Tower that he notices he still has his arm slung around Tony’s shoulders, holding the billionaire tightly to his side. His breathe catches because Tony hasn’t pushed him off with a joke about being too touchy-feely.

Does that mean he likes it? _Likes him?_

He must, since Clint hasn’t put deodorant on yet today and he’s definitely sweating now. Why did he have to think about that right now? Slowly, feigning nonchalance, he pulls his arm away, patting Tony’s shoulder in a manly, just friends, kind of way. The confused look and head tilt he gets lets him know that Tony isn’t buying it. Another reason why workshop-zombie Tony is his favorite; he’s usually too manic and tired to notice Clint’s overwhelming crush.

“Hey, hold up a minute. Can we talk?” Tony halts Clint with a hand to his chest that’s removed too soon for his liking, and he moves to stand in front of him. Clint desperately eyes the donut shop sign over Tony’s shoulder. He doesn’t want Tony to bring up his embarrassing infatuation right now. He’d rather just eat donuts and ignore his feelings forever.

Looking back at Tony, he’s suddenly confused. Tony, he’s, _is he nervous?_ Tony Stark doesn’t do ‘nervous’, so what’s this about?

“Clint, I…I think that maybe you…”

Whatever else Tony has to say is lost to him as he sees a small projectile coming at them out of the corner of his eye. Is that?

“Grenade!” He yells, pushing Tony away. Away from the glass windows behind them and from the path of the grenade. He flings himself to the ground, hoping that the patio tables around them block some of the force.

He’s wrong. The explosion rips through the air, throwing him further down the street violently. His head is ringing and pain vaguely registers from where he struck the ground.

He looks around wildly for Tony, trying desperately to see through the smoke and debris in the air. Shit! He’s down! Halfway underneath a patio table, sprawled on his front, out cold. It shouldn’t have been possible, but more panic fills his chest at the sight of Tony’s unmoving body, blood streaming from his nose.

Then he sees them; a group of armed men in dark clothing are running toward them. No, towards Tony! One is hauling the table off of his back while another stoops to grab his friend when Clint finally realizes what this actually is. This is a kidnapping!

He’s on his feet in less than a breath, charging silently. He grabs a chair and hits the first man across the back of the head and when he stumbles, Clint snatches the gun from his hip holster. His mind is instantly in agent-mode and he fires a shot at the leg of the man holding Tony and they crash to the ground. It’s a little more worrisome when Tony doesn’t budge as he hits the concrete with a guy who outweighs him by 100 pounds on top.

Focus on the task at hand. He needs to take the rest of these guys down so that he can get Tony medical attention. Counting quickly, he cringes. Five to one. Ok. He’s had worse odds, but usually he’s had more than a stolen handgun and an empty stomach to work with.

It’s a rough fight, but it’s over quickly. He managed to knock down two before they have him on the ground without a weapon. His ribs ache from being punched and one side of his face obviously took some hits, but there’s a guy carrying Tony in a fireman’s carry to a white, windowless van with some plumbing company logo on the side. Probably fake.

Strategies must be flexible to succeed and he needs to get in that van or follow it, so he stops fighting.

“Take him, too. Extra leverage can’t hurt,” a gruff voice says as he’s roughly shoved face-first to the ground. His hands are wrenched behind him and cuffed together. A black bag is pulled over his head and he’s dragged somewhat to his feet to be thrown in the van next to Tony’s prone figure. 

From his position on his side, he can’t tell how badly Tony’s hurt, if he’s conscious yet, or if he’s even breathing. Slowly, so as to avoid drawing their captors’ attention, he scoots backward on his side until he can feel Tony’s elbow underneath his questing fingers. He moves down, pulling Tony’s sweater sleeve out of the way, and breathes a small sigh of relief when he finally feels a pulse.

It’s strong, steady. Tony’s ok. He keeps his fingers pressed against the warmth of Tony’s wrist, finding the constant reminder that he’s not alone very comforting as he tries to follow the turns the van takes in his head.

From the conversation at the front of the van, he counts only two enemies. If he can disable them when they open the doors, he may be able to steal the vehicle and navigate them back to safety. It’ll be difficult with no vision, but worth a shot. He won’t go down without a fight.

As the van slows, he eases himself around so that his legs are facing the door, kick first and do as much damage as possible. It’s definitely just a lucky coincidence that from this angle, most of Tony’s torso is protected by Clint’s body. He takes a moment to breath, calming himself and entering the headspace he needs to fight, resting his head on Tony’s stomach. It’s warm and smells so much like home.

The doors are flung open and Clint waits a two-count before kicking out with both feet at what he assumes is chest height. He hits something pretty solidly and grins as he hears a winded cry in response. There’s more yelling, though, and more hands than he had expected land on him, holding his legs down. He struggles, wiggling frantically. His head slams forward into a nose and that person falls away, groaning.

It doesn’t look like this is going to end with him getting free and stealing the van, but any chance to harm his captors is worth taking. Their pain is his gain. He’s enjoying his little act of rebellion until his head is captured firmly and a sharp prick stabs into his neck.

No! They’re dosing him with something and he can feel his struggles slowing. His limbs are sluggish to obey him and he quickly succumbs into nothingness, slumping limply against Tony again.

***

A steady pounding in his head and a faint twinge of nausea brings Clint out of his stupor. He groans, feeling additional pains all over from the explosion and fight, not to mention the discomfort that goes along with being recently drugged. After a few moments of steady yoga breathing, _thank you Bruce for that particular team-building exercise_ , the pain is manageable and he can sit up to take stock of his surroundings.

Pushing himself up on weak noodle arms to lean on the wall behind him, all he sees is the dark, cold grey of concrete around him. A cell then. No windows. No bed. A heavy metal door that blends well with the dull walls takes up one entire side of the cell. From his position opposite it, he can’t tell if there are any hinges or electronic locks that can be manipulated. It is too dark, lit only by an ominous and faint glow coming from the ceiling. It’s cold, too, he notices, grateful that he is still outfitted with his hoody and jeans.

He sniffles a little, his nose starting to run with the temperature drop, glad it isn’t blood but it’s still sore from taking a few hits. Bringing his hand up, he gingerly feels it, noting some slight swelling and tenderness while wiping away some crusted blood.

He wonders how long he’s been in here. A soft groan from his left startles him. He turns and immediately crawls over, uncaring of his injuries.

“Tony!” Tony is sprawled out on his back, unmoving. He looks terrible, face pale and littered with small cuts and blood still visible near his ear and under his nose. Clint’s hands land on Tony’s chilled cheeks and he pats them gently, hoping to wake the man up. “Tony, wake up! Come on, man, open up.”

He runs his hands through Tony’s hair, sucking in a surprised breath when one comes away wet and red. “Crap.” He must have hit the ground hard after the explosion. It’s probably a concussion, which makes waking him up that much more urgent.

“Tony please, please wake up for me.” Maneuvering so that Tony’s shoulders and head were on his lap instead of the cold hard floor, he starts rubbing warmth into his arms and chest careful not to touch the arc reactor. Tony is still twitchy about other people coming near it and the last thing he needs right now is a panic attack.

After a few minutes of desperate begging, Tony’s face begins to regain a tiny bit of color and his eyes are visibly moving behind lids. “There we go, Tones. Let’s see those peepers!” He continues cajoling, worried out of his mind at how long it is taking for Tony to regain consciousness.

Tony groans, long and loud, but there’s nothing sexy about it at all. His eyelids flutter, opening briefly but unable to focus on anything. His gaze jumps disjointedly across the room, trying to settle on something. He’s going to make himself sick.

“Tony, hey, Tony. Just focus on me, ok? Right here. I’ve got you. Do you know who I am?” Clint puts his face closer to Tony’s, making it impossible not to focus on him. Clint frowns as he gets a solid look at Tony’s eyes; one pupil is significantly larger than the other. Isn’t that a sign of a serious brain injury?

“Clint? Wh’s goin’ on?” Tony slurs, closing his eyes again.

Any relief that Clint felt from seeing Tony come to dissipates at how out of it he seems. This is not good. Not good at all. He was never going to forgive himself if Tony had any lasting damage from this. If it hadn’t been for him they wouldn’t have been outside at that moment. “Do you remember when we went for donuts? There was an explosion.”

Tony’s brow furrows in confusion and he tries to keep his eyes open for a few seconds but fails. “Splosion? No. The lab… Dummy…” He trails off, panting at the exertion from that simple sentence.

Clint’s heart is breaking, concern causing his own forehead to scrunch. “Oh, Tony.” The man is so concussed he doesn’t remember leaving his lab. He brushes his hands through the hair near Tony’s temples, hoping to offer him some comfort. “It’s gonna be ok, Tony.”

“No, Mr. Barton. It’s really not,” a voice interrupts from the doorway. Clint’s head jerks up in surprise. There is a small panel in the middle of the door that had opened without him noticing. They are being watched.

He instantly hunches over Tony as much as he can to protect him, but then the door is opening, sliding to the right almost soundlessly; amazing for a door that large and heavy. Four large and heavily armed men storm into the cell, two of them ripping Tony from his arms and hauling him to his feet where he sags like a rag doll between them.

“Hey!” Clint protests, the other two men holding him back as he struggles to get to Tony. The thought of these Neanderthals touching Tony, _his Tony_ , has him hot under the collar and ready for another fight.

“Now, now Mr. Barton. Don’t make me regret letting you join us. You’re quite expendable to my cause. I need to have a conversation with Mr. Stark. If it goes well, you can be out of here by dinner.” The smarmy man says from where he has remained standing outside the door. Clint dedicates his features to memory, just in case. He’s wearing a suit, but after years of hanging out with Tony, he can tell it’s an untailored cheapie. Slicked back hair, pinched expression, and emotionless brown eyes; an unremarkable enemy, except that he successfully kidnapped two Avengers right off the street.  

“He’s hurt, you can’t really expect him to give you any useful information,” he scoffs, trying to play it cool, but seriously dreading what is to come if they start to coerce Tony into sharing knowledge. Despite being a genius, he’s not currently in a state to truly process what is going on.

“I think we’ll manage, Mr. Barton. Enjoy your afternoon.” The man jerks his head and Tony is dragged from the room, fighting feebly. Clint lunges away from his handlers, intent upon ripping Tony from their harsh hands, but they have no qualms at restraining him with a series of vicious hits to the stomach and face. Dropping to the floor on hands and knees, he wheezes, spitting away blood. He hopes that the team notices that they are missing sooner rather than later.

***

Clint paces. He paces and paces and paces. He’s been pacing for hours, creating a mental map of the room, not that it’s all that difficult to remember ‘concrete, 8’ x 8’, one door, no windows’ with a small toilet area in one corner. That’s a blessing, for sure. The door has no obvious way of being opened from the inside, not that he can tell anyway.

If Tony’s up for it when he comes back, it would be worth it for him to take a look. He’s the resident genius, after all. The lights from the ceiling are too high and inset; even if they could use the internal parts for something, they can’t be reached.

He isn’t going to say it’s hopeless, but it’s pretty close. He needs more intel. Where are they? How many guards? What kind of facility is this? Most importantly, _what do these people want?_

The panel in the middle of the door slides open, a small square of overly-bright light in the perpetual darkness of the room. Clint squints against it, trying to maintain his visual acuity. “Back up. Face the wall. Put your hands behind your back.” Orders are barked at him. Hoping that this means they’re returning Tony to him, he obeys without hesitation.

He can’t risk that any rebelliousness on his part be brought against Tony. The less Tony’s hurt, the better. He doesn’t hear the door opening, again freakishly silent. All he hears is the shuffling noises of multiple people, the slight echo of heavy boots on the ground, then a muffled thump. After another moment: silence. He turns slowly, just on the off chance he’s mistaken and there are still enemies in the room.

“Tony!” He crashes to Tony’s side where he’s been dropped in a heap on the floor, arms twisted up beneath him. Damn he wishes they had something softer than the concrete floor to sit on. Tony’s only been gone a few hours, half a day at most and he looks terrible. On top of how terrible he had looked before.

“Oh, Tony, no. What have they done to you?” He whispers, though Tony is unconscious; which is probably a good thing, considering. His face is a mess, all blood and bruises. One eye is definitely going to be swollen shut, his lower lip is split, and blood is caked on his nose and down the left side of his face.

Before he can take further stock of the injuries, another slat opens in the door, this one near the bottom and a tray is slid through without a word. Cautiously, he crawls to it, excited to see some food and water set out. Pulling it over to Tony, he dips a cloth napkin (freaking fancy for a dungeon!) into the water and starts to gently wipe away the blood, grime, and sweat on Tony’s face.

Each cut is almost a personal affront. Tony’s face is so perfect and lovely; how dare they bust and bruise it up like this?! His anger dissipates with every stroke of the napkin, though. He can’t do much for Tony right now, but he can do this and is grateful when all the blood is gone. With the shadows of the room, he could almost be sleeping.

When Tony shows no signs of waking, Clint arranges himself against the wall with Tony’s head in his lap to eat his portion of the food. It’s simple, cheap stuff, but pleasantly filling after an entire day with no food. It’s not donuts, he pouts, but he’s had much worse on military rations and in other hostage situations.

So he munches away on the bland overcooked pasta, one hand absently stroking through Tony’s hair. He’s always wanted to touch the dark locks, but he wishes it wasn’t in this kind of situation. He’d imagined going on a date with Tony and maybe at the end of the night, pulling him close with a hand on his waist, pressing him against his body, and running his fingers through his hair as they kiss.

He’s not really aware of time passing, staring at the opposite dull wall in front of him and dismissing escape plan after escape plan, but he’s drawn back to reality when Tony’s head tilts into his touch.

“Tony? Are you awake?” He bends so that he can see Tony better in the twilight.

Brown eyes open slowly, squinting up at him. Clint’s assessment was right and only one can open all the way and the other pupil is still blown, but Tony recognizes him faster than earlier. “Clint? Where are we?” He’s not slurring as bad anymore, either. What a relief.

Clint sighs. “We’ve been kidnapped, Tony. They’re keeping us in a cell until they get some information from you. I don’t know anything else, but the cell itself is well fortified and empty of anything helpful. How are you feeling?”

“Mmm… bad.” Tony closes his eyes and his face is a mask of strain. “Like my worst migraine times a billion. Did they break my ankle, too? It hurts.”

He must be in a truly ridiculous amount of pain to be admitting it. Tony was definitely the brush it off, suck it up, suffer in silence type of guy. “Let me take a look, ok?” He leans over, trying not to move Tony’s head too much, to pull up Tony’s pant leg. “Bend your knee, please?”

The leg bends, bringing the ankle within reach. He hisses at the swelling he can see, but there’s not a lot of bruising. He moves it gently in a circle, then forward and back, feeling the bones underneath the black dress sock. “I don’t think it’s broken, Tones, probably sprained though. There’s no painkillers, either. But there is food and water.” He puts it back down and Tony lets his knee flop to the side. “Are you hungry?”

“No. Water?” Tony rasps.

“Yeah, let’s get you sitting up, though.” Tony hums in agreement, but doesn’t help at all as Clint props him up against his chest, head lolling onto his shoulder to hold the cup to his lips. “Drink, now, Tones.”

Tony drinks, slowly and deeply, but denies the second offer of food. He moves his head to the side, lips almost brushing Clint’s neck and making him shiver in a way that has nothing to do with the chill in the air. Clint tips his own head down, thinking that Tony is seeking comfort, but finds his eyes growing wide as Tony whispers to him.

It’s so soft, he can barely make out the words, but they settle unpleasantly in his gut regardless. “They’re after that file Hill sent me to decrypt. Rival group or something, it’s hard for me to think right now… My head…They think I’ve seen it and they want that information, desperately. The room is bugged, in the lights; I heard it as we passed a control room on the way out. I’m concussed and it hurts like a bitch, but it’s better if I play it up as much as I can.”

It takes Tony an agonizingly long time to get the sentence out, but relief floods through Clint at the realization that Tony has most of his faculties and is obviously working toward a plan. Clint can’t think of anything to say, so he nods enough for Tony to feel it.

“I can get us out of here, but I need some things.” Tony spews off a list that Clint commits to memory. “If you get the chance to swipe any of it, do it. I get the feeling their interrogation techniques are going to escalate quickly, but I can’t anticipate what they’ll do when they realize I never decrypted the files.”

“It’s gonna be ok, Tony. I trust that whatever you’ve got cooking in that brain of yours is gonna get us out of here.” He wraps his arms around Tony’s torso more securely. Just for warmth, he justifies, but he really is just enjoying the contact and the weight of Tony in his arms.

“My waistband, Clint. I got… coupla..things,” Tony’s slurring again and he slips into unconsciousness quickly, but Clint lets him. The poor guy’s really been through the ringer today. But he does subtly slip a hand to Tony’s back, underneath his sweater, searching for something. Aha! He pulls out a plain simple calculator and a small screwdriver, no bigger than his hand. Keeping it out of view of the door will be difficult in a room this empty, but he’ll figure something out.

If Tony can withstand the torture long enough to gather supplies, Clint will do the rest. Including taking care of Tony.

***

Tony is right, of course, and their captors escalate their methods of interrogation quickly. Every day, Tony is taken from the cell and returned a few hours later, in progressively worse shape. Clint figures it hasn’t been a week yet, but he’s worried. Tony is becoming less and less responsive each day. He continues to gather his random supplies, but Clint can’t make heads or tails of what he’s supposedly building with them.

He’s sitting with his back against the wall, legs spread wide to fit Tony in between them. Tony’s on his side, head resting on Clint’s thigh, back to the door and he’s playing with the stolen parts, using their bodies as shields from prying eyes. Anyone looking in would think that Tony was asleep and using his friend as a pillow but Clint watches the door, regardless, ready to hide the evidence with his jacket at a moment’s notice.

He naps while Tony’s tortured so that he can be awake to protect him and help with what he can when he’s returned. It’s getting difficult, though. Tony hasn’t really been eating, complaining of an ever-present nausea from his concussion. That, combined with the lack of sleep and the chill has made him sick; he coughs and shivers while trying to build whatever technological miracle he’s imagined.

So he keeps Tony close, sharing body heat and lays his jacket over his trembling form. He feels awful doing it, but every time the man falters or starts to fall asleep, he gently rubs his neck or hair to wake him up again. They desperately need Tony to complete his plan so that they can escape before he’s too sick to move.

“Tony, hey Tony,” he whispers, scratching his nails through Tony’s dirty hair. He startles, hands immediately moving back to his screwdriver. “Is there anything I can do to help?” He’s as quiet as he can be, hyperaware of the people who could be listening in.

“No. But could you…”

“Could I what?”

He can feel Tony’s inhale, shallow with a wet rattle, against his legs. It’s incredibly selfish, but he can’t help how he enjoys the contact. He’s surprisingly lonely when Tony’s not here with him, and having him practically hugging his thigh is soothing. It’s almost psychological torture the way Clint is ignored by their captors; if Tony weren’t here, he’d be completely cut off from any and all human interaction.

“Can you just… keep doing that?” He coughs again, gripping Clint’s knee tightly for a moment as he pushes through the pain.

“This? Of course, Tony.” He continues to massage his scalp, swapping between using nails and just the pads of his fingers, twisting and combing the dark strands of hair, wondering if Tony asking for this is a sign of how desperate and horrible he feels or that he trusts Clint enough to ask. He hopes it’s the latter.

He lets Tony work for another couple of hours before speaking again. “Hey, why don’t you get a little bit of sleep?”

Tony makes a faint noise of denial, but his hands stop moving. Clint pushes their stash to the hiding spot he’d carved behind him; just a small crack in the wall he’d painstakingly hollowed out. It barely fit their supplies, but it was unnoticeable in the dark if he stood just right.

Grabbing Tony’s hands, he holds them between his, trying to give them some warmth. He’s gentle; today they had broken some of his fingers and yanked out his fingernails on others. They look terrible. They’re bruised in their entirety and bloody at the ends. At least his fingers are no longer splayed in unnatural directions, Clint having set them while Tony was still unconscious after he’d been dumped back in the cell.

Tony had thanked him profusely for that.

As gentle as he is, Tony still whines softly in the back of his throat. “Sorry, Tony,” he whispers, blowing warm air on their conjoined hands. He’s shivering again, despite the addition of Clint’s sweater tossed over his shoulders. He needs off of this cold floor; it’s doing nothing but sucking his warmth and health away.

“Hold on, I’m going to try something.” He maneuvers so that he’s lying flat on the ground, hissing as his back freezes instantly. He hoists Tony up so that he’s stretched out fully on top of him, head securely on his shoulder, breathing into his neck. One arm goes up to cushion his own noggin from the concrete and the other wraps around Tony’s waist, holding tighter than necessary. It’s more than partly hug, but Clint doesn’t care. He needs this right now and from the way Tony tucks his arms at Clint’s sides and the little happy sigh he hears, the other man needs it just as much.   

Tony’s weight is comforting, and despite the lack of showers and hygiene in general in their cell, he still essentially smells like _Tony_. Like home. Clint presses his face close and inhales deeply. There’s still a hint of Tony’s coconut shampoo underneath the harsh stench of blood and he treasures the faint aroma.

Clint doesn’t sleep, keeping an ever watchful eye on the door while monitoring Tony’s breathing and the slight fever he seems to be developing. He can feel the heat on his neck and it’s a pleasant warmth at the moment, but he knows it will blow up into something horrible and draining unless treated; which it is unlikely to be.

Tony nuzzles his nose against Clint’s neck, unconsciously trying to get closer and he obliges by leaning his head into Tony’s. His hand on Tony’s back slips under the layers of clothes to rub slow circles into the soft skin there. He smiles as Tony hums at the feeling. He’s always suspected that Tony would be a cuddle fiend when it came to people he really trusted. During the day he was both incredibly tactile and standoffish. He hesitated to initiate touch, but always seemed to enjoy and encourage any contact he received from the team. Other people were a whole different matter, but really, who in their right mind liked surprise contact from strangers?

The warmth and contentment in his chest lulls him into a false sense of security and he berates himself harshly when he’s jolted awake by Tony yelling as two men in camouflage pants and black long sleeve shirts yank him up. Something’s different this morning, though. They’re waiting for something… or someone. These two hold Tony upright between them, and Clint has to hold himself back as he obviously fights the need to black out: legs sagging and eyes rolling up into his head.

He stands slowly, as non-threatening as he can be, determined not to give the goons a reason to attack him. Although, that could work to their advantage; they’re big guys but he’s confident that he could take them out. If it happened, he would take the opportunity to try and escape.

It doesn’t happen that way, though. The slim, nasally man from their first day here returns, sneer much more prominent as he glares between Clint and Tony. Oh no. “It seems I’ve been remiss in not including you in our conversations, Mr. Barton.”

The sneer morphs into something ugly and sinister. “That should be rectified. Bring him.”

Two more matching minions stride into the room and over to him, pulling his arms behind his back and into a set of handcuffs. He feels the butt of a gun against the middle of his back, but it doesn’t stop him from grinning widely at the guy holding onto his elbow. “How’s the nose?”

The guy he’d head-butted in the van glowers from behind his raccoon-eye bruises and punches him solidly in the gut. Thankfully, he’d expected such petty retaliation, but he still doubles over in pain. Before he can catch his breath, they’re moving with the suit-clad smarmy guy in the lead and Tony stumbling along behind, more than partially carried by the men on either side of him; leaving Clint as the caboose of this strange entourage.

He tries to soak in as many details about their environment as they go; the control room Tony had mentioned, only one right hand turn away down an adjacent hallway, with two men inside. The limited number of screens makes Clint think this facility isn’t all that large. That’s good for them. The rest of the hallways are bare; no other doors open or close and they only occasionally pass another guard standing at attention. He notes that they are armed, but not as heavily as he would have expected based upon their first encounter.

They go through a door at the end of a hallway, this one heavy and loud in comparison with their own, and down a small flight of stairs. The torture chamber at the end is enough to give him pause. It’s not fancy by any means and it’s the harsh blankness that scares him the most.

A wooden, high-backed chair sits in the middle of the room with lots of spotlights trained on it. There’s a grate below it and metal rings bolted to the floor on either side. A couple of metal tables are strewn with instruments that could, at first glance, be medical tools, but he knows better. They’ve all been used on Tony over the past few days.

It’s colder than their cell, significantly so, and he represses a shiver as Tony’s roughly stripped of his sweater and shirts. A metal folding chair that wouldn’t be out of place at any regular banquet hall is set up about eight feet in front of the wooden chair. Clint is led to it and a heavy rope used to tie him down, ankles strapped to the bottom and arms stuck behind him. He has a front row view of Tony in the other chair.

Tony’s dress shoes and socks are removed and heavy manacles attached to his ankles and chained to the rings, holding his legs open fairly wide so that the edges of the seat must be digging into the back of his thighs. A small pained noise escapes him, probably from pressure on his still swollen ankle.

Tony’s arms are also behind him, manacled together and pulled taught to reach another ring in the floor. His breathing is loud and labored, unable to catch anything more than a shallow breath with the way he’s contorted. The congestion in his lungs probably making it a hundred times worse.

“I’ll ask you again, Mr. Stark. Will you tell me what is on the drive SHIELD recovered or do we need to persuade you? If you tell me, you and your friend,” he puts a strange stress on the word ‘friend’ that Clint doesn’t like. “Will go free, no further harm done.”

“I don’t know what’s on the drive,” Tony says weakly before coughing. He grimaces, and Clint knows that the arc reactor makes breathing extremely difficult and painful on a regular day.

“You’re lying,” the man says coldly, snapping his fingers twice. He looks at Clint, leaning against one of the tables with his arms crossed. “If you can think of anything to help this along, Mr. Barton, please speak up.”

One of the goons hooks up a regular green garden hose to a spigot on the wall, cranking the knob all the way to the left. Water spews from the end and Tony’s eyes widen in fear and he shrinks away against the seat back. Clint’s own heart rate suddenly spikes. He knows that water is Tony’s weakness; he’s seen the SHIELD files. He can’t let Tony get lost in his own head.

“Tony, it’s ok. Focus on me, come on,” he says firmly, keeping his voice steady. Tony’s gaze meets his, and he tries to convey comfort across the room. His broken-nose friend steps up from the side and punches him in the face, rocking his head to the side. He gasps in pain. He did not see that coming.

When his vision clears, he’s horrified to see that they’ve turned the hose on Tony, spraying him relentlessly as he splutters and shivers. His hair is instantly matted to his forehead and his pants soaked through. They pause, dropping the hose so that the water runs over his bare feet and down the drain.

“The files on the drive, Mr. Stark. I need to know everything you saw. Those plans are worth a lot of money on the streets. I can’t even describe how many players would be interested. Even if we start in the millions, the bidding war will explode. Do you remember seeing shipping plans?”

“I d-d-don’t know w-what’s on the drive,” Tony says, teeth chattering audibly and interfering with his speech. Water cascades down his face and chest, leaving goosebumps behind. Clint is amazed that Tony is still mentally in the room with them. He can remember one incident when the Iron Man suit had been damaged and flung into the Atlantic. Jarvis had auto-piloted it out of the water and dumped Tony out, shaking and in the middle of a panic attack. It had taken a couple hours to calm him down.

“I need that information, Mr. Stark. I really wish you would just tell me what I want to know. We might have to get your friend involved.”

Tony shakes his head violently, “No, I d-d-didn’t see any blueprints. H-h-hurting him won’t help you.”

“We’ll see.”

Clint braces himself for whatever hurt was coming, but no one makes a move toward him. Instead, the man grabs something long from the table and approaches Tony, staying on the dry part of the concrete.

“No!” He yells, guessing what the contraption is, but all that gets him is another brutal punch to the face. Tony is screaming, voice hoarse and echoing along the barren walls. Every time the man touches the tip of the re-fashioned taser to his wet skin, his body tenses, arching nearly off of the chair. His neck muscles cording out and his breathing even more ragged and desperate.

“Wet him down,” suit-guy says again, cool as a cucumber. The hose is picked up and Tony doused in frigid water again.

He’s crying, tears and snot mixing with the water running down his face. The taser hits him again and again, in the stomach, the shoulder, close to the arc reactor. Tony twitches violently, trying to twist away but the manacles hold him tightly to his chair. Blood starts leaking out of his mouth from biting his tongue.

When the bright blue light from Tony’s chest starts to flicker, Clint truly starts to fear for his friends’ life.

“Stop it! You’ll kill him with that!” Clint flexes and struggles against his bonds, but it’s futile. Blows are rained down on his defenseless torso. He feels something crack, but they continue for another few moments.

Everything stops at once and he hears the squeaking of the water spigot, then quiet. There’s no water running, no grunts of pain from Clint. It would be silent if it weren’t for Tony’s wheezing and coughing.

The man steps close, grasping Tony’s chin where it’s bumping against his chest and lifting it up. “Have you remembered the blueprints, Mr. Stark?” It’s disturbing how little his voice has changed throughout the whole ordeal.

“I’ll build it. Please stop, just stop. The Jericho. I’ll build it. No more water. The Jer...” His eyes are wide and wild and glassy; not seeing what is really in the room. Clint knows he’s definitely lost in his own head, remembering a situation just as dire as this one.

“What are you talking about?” The man snaps, slapping Tony across the cheek. The snap of it is loud and a red mark instantly appears on Tony’s waxy, pale face.

“You broke him. Now you’ll never get your information,” Clint snarks. He just wants the man away from Tony, so he’ll make a target of himself. “You’re up shit creek without a paddle.”

The man’s calm reserve finally cracks as he turns on Clint. He screams in frustration, a rabid, animal sound and punches Clint so hard his chair falls to the ground. He groans, his cheekbone likely fractured, but he manages to keep his head from bouncing off the concrete. The man kicks him, dress shoes pounding against his already sore ribs and his legs.

Eventually he loses steam though. Tossing his head, the man flicks blonde, sweaty hair out of his eyes. “Then I guess you’ve all outlived your usefulness. Take them back to the cell. We’ll dispose of them later.”

Clint’s bonds are swiftly cut but he’s left lying on the ground as most of the goons follow suit guy out of the room. The only two guys remaining are completely focused on unlocking Tony’s chains when he spots the makeshift taser, where it’s been dropped on the floor.

The only thing Tony still needs for their escape is a power source.

He scoots to it quickly and quietly. Forcing his numb, tingling fingers to cooperate, he rips it apart so that he has the ‘taser’ separated from the holder that gave it the extra three feet of length. Hunching over as if in pain, he slides it into his front jeans pocket.

He’s just in time, too, as he’s hauled to his feet and pushed forward toward the door. They don’t bother cuffing him this time, as aware as he is that he’s just had the crap beat out of him, so they let him limp slowly along. The bigger of the two has Tony tossed over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes while he mumbles about ‘the Jericho’ and fights back feebly. He hopes he can snap Tony out of this quickly. Based on what had just happened, they needed to get out of here _tonight_.

At their cell, the guard hits a series of keys on a control pad and the door silently slides to the side. He’s shoved inside, probably for good measure, but keeps his feet. The second guard dumps Tony on his ass from fairly high up, hitting the ground with a pained yelp, before they leave without a backward glance.

“Tony, oh God, Tony.” Clint crashes to his knees at his side, disregarding his own injuries because he needs to know that Tony is alright, that his heart or arc reactor isn’t about to give out from the electric shock therapy. He’s conscious, but barely, still mumbling little half words about Yinsen and the cave.

He pulls Tony up, cradling him against his chest, and works his own hoody over his head. The man’s still soaked through, but there’s nothing Clint can do about it. Once again, he needs to get Tony out of his head to finish whatever he’s building, and they need to escape. There’s finally a genuine countdown on their time here.

So he talks to Tony, random snippets and stories; his favorite missions, pranks pulled on the Hulk, hoping that his familiar, soothing voice helps bring him out of his nightmares. His cheek aches something fierce with every word, but he doesn’t let it stop him. He’d rather face the pain than let Tony suffer. He’s not even aware that he’s rocking side to side, fingers sliding through Tony’s wet hair.

“And then there was confetti _everywhere_ and Hulk was pissed. I don’t think I’ve ever run so fast in my entire life.”

“Clint?” Tony murmurs and Clint’s fingers still.

“Tony?” He looks down into Tony’s eyes, which are, thankfully, open and alert (not to mention distractingly pretty). “Hey, are you with me, Tones?”

“Yeah, Clint, I’m here. That was rough, but I’m here,” he squeezes Clint’s hand, not tightly because of his broken fingers, but it makes Clint smile regardless. “You look like crap.”

A laugh bursts out of him unexpectedly and a surge of affection rushes through his chest. Without thinking, he leans over and presses a quick kiss to Tony’s lips. Tony’s shocked intake of breath has him pausing and pulling back, apology and backtrack ready to spew forth. Before he gets too far, though, Tony is surging up and kissing him back.

It’s slow and sweet and leaves Clint all the more eager to get out of this dank dungeon. He just wants Tony healthy and whole, back to his tan glow, snuggled up to him on the couch wrapped in blankets with hot chocolate and they’ll just kiss and kiss until they can’t feel their lips.

“Wow,” he breathes when they separate. Tony smiles, opening his mouth to say something too, but has to turn away to hack up a lung or two. “Slow, Tony. Just take it slow.”

Tony nods, slumping back against his chest when he was done, completely worn out. “Sorry,” he whispers.

“It’s ok, Tony. I understand. Later, though.” He lowers his voice as he pulls the taser out of his pocket. “For now, what do you say we fuck this place up?”

Tony’s grin is wide, his teeth tinged with blood, but it’s a good look for him still. “Gimme.”

***

Since he’s still mostly soaked and freezing, Tony finishes his gizmo while sitting on Clint’s lap. Clint’s in his normal position against the wall, and Tony sits sideways in his lap back to the door and head on Clint’s shoulder facing his neck. They’re close enough to whisper in each other’s ears with no difficulty.

“So I need to override the door with a powerful electrical current. I’d guess that anything less than 160 volts is just going to lock us in here, but with the taser we should be good. Excellent find, by the way,” Tony moves his head enough to kiss Clint quickly before passing him three sticks of unopened gum. “Chew on these, please.”

Smiling at the unexpected affection, Clint takes the gum. “Where did you get these?” He whispers around the growing blob of spearmint in his mouth.

“The guards carry me practically everywhere and have a lot of pockets. I’m kinda shocked they haven’t noticed all the stuff I’ve swiped.” Tony shrugs. “But then again, these guys don’t seem that well-funded. I mean, what kind of self-respecting villains don’t have cameras in the holding cells? Seems like a serious oversight to me.”

“A lucky oversight,” Clint agrees. “So what’s the rest of the plan?”

“This door is the only door like this that I’m aware of, so this should be an isolated loop. Once I blow it, technically speaking, the door will open but no alarms should sound. We get to that control room, take out the guards, and send a distress signal to the Tower. We can then either sit tight and wait for rescue or find an exit route and make for it.”

 Clint grins, matching Tony’s in manic glee. “I like it. You ready?” The hardest part is going to be taking over the control room. One sick, incapacitated genius and one beat to hell archer with no bow against two giant armed guards? No problem.

Tony nods his assent and they slowly stand, making no noise. At least their habit of keeping quiet will give them extra time before anyone listening in notices that they’re gone. Tony’s left ankle is so swollen he has to forego his shoes and putting weight on it is definitely a no-no, so Clint wraps his arm underneath his shoulders as a crutch.

Together, they hobble to the door and Tony uses his screwdriver to pry off a grey plate that Clint had completely missed, it blended so well with the wall. The inside is sparse, only a couple of crisscrossing black wires, but Tony seems to know what to do. He uses a pocketknife to cut and pull back the casing to expose the copper wiring.

“Gum?” He asks, holding out his hand. Clint spits the gum directly into his palm, grinning at the disgusted face Tony makes. “You’re a child. Why do I even like you?”

Despite their situation, Clint’s heart does a happy leap at that and he leans in to kiss Tony’s cheek and is rewarded with a slight blush. Tony blushes?! That’s awesome. He’ll have to investigate that reaction later, at great length.

Tony uses the gum to hold the wires he stripped to the tines of the taser. He’d done something to the weapon to make it a more stable current, but that was a bit beyond Clint’s area of expertise. “Ok, ready in 3..2..1.” He pushes the button on the taser and there’s a faint blue light and a spark, but the door slides open beside them.

“Yes!” Clint fist pumps in the air, still keeping his voice down. He and Tony exchange delighted grins, but they waste no time stepping into the corridor. Clint checks both ways quickly and, seeing no one, grabs Tony so that they can limp to the control room together. Setting Tony against the wall, Clint peeks into the room; two guards lounging in rolling office chairs, both armed. He notes that there’s a line of walkie talkies on a charger, but none are missing. Maybe if they can get these guys out of the room in a hurry, they won’t be able to call for reinforcements.

“Distraction?” Clint asks Tony, so quiet air isn’t even moving out of his mouth. One side of Tony’s mouth quirks up and he salutes Clint with a bloody, bruised hand before taking a few steps back the way they came and sinking to the floor.

Clint darts to the opposite side of the door so that he can be behind whoever leaves the control room. He has Tony’s stolen pocketknife out and ready and he’s practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. The adrenaline from the mere thought of escaping is running through his body, leaving him thrumming with anxious energy.

“Help,” Tony whines loudly. “Help me, please!”

“What the hell?” The guards are quick to exit the room, stopping when they see Tony sprawled on the ground.

“How did he get out here?” One asks, kneeling down at Tony’s side.

“I don’t know, but I’m gonna radio the boss to find out.” As soon as he finishes talking, Clint and Tony strike; Clint kicks out as hard as he can at one’s knee from the side, knocking the patella out of place and sending the guy crashing to the ground with a yell of pain. He dribbles the man’s head against the ground, effectively knocking him out. He didn’t even have to use the knife.

He glances at Tony, who’d used the last juice from his upgraded taser to knock the other guard out. One shot to the neck is all it took. Grinning, Clint offers a hand to haul Tony to his feet when there’s shouting from the direction of their cell.

Heavy footsteps pound against the floor. Crap. He shoves Tony toward the control room, they need to get in there and lock the door behind them before they’re captured again.

“Stop them!” He recognizes the smarmy suit-guy’s irritating voice, but doesn’t turn to look. This is a mistake as he hears a gunshot and registers a burning hot pain in his thigh almost simultaneously. He cries out, almost falling to the ground, but Tony grabs him by the armpits and they crash into the room. Tony kicks the door shut and they both breathe a small sigh of relief as the automatic lock is engaged.

“Shit, Clint! Are you ok?” Tony asks, panting with exertion. He pauses to cough and it sounds so much worse from all the activity. They’re in a pile of limbs just inside the door and in a swap of their usual situation, he’s lying atop Tony and he can feel the strain of his breathing where his head rests on Tony’s firm stomach.

“Yeah, ow!” He tries to straighten his leg to sit up, but it hurts. “It’s a through and through, and missed the femoral. I should be ok until help arrives. Can you get a signal out with this stuff?” He gestures at the row of computers while holding tightly to his thigh. It definitely did not hit anything major but he’s quickly sitting in a puddle of blood.

“Let me see.” Tony crawls out from beneath him and stands, swaying. His head is gripped in both hands as he groans and stumbles.

“Tony?” Clint reaches up with one hand, ready to catch him should he fall.

“I’m good, just stood up too fast. Don’t worry about it.” There’s that usual Tony bravado, but it’s totally not appreciated in the here and now.

He heads to the controls, dropping heavily into one of the chairs and navigating the computers with ease. He hisses as his battered fingers hit too hard against the keyboard. “Ok, I’ve disengaged the locks on this room. There’s no way they’re getting in without a Hulk and working on the distress signal to the Tower….”

“Tony, are you sure you’re ok?” Tony’s face is getting progressively whiter and his breathing is fast and erratic.

Tony doesn’t respond. “Signal. Signal. Signal. Go, go, go. Ok, done. Jarvis has… message to… Cap..”

“Tony! Tony!” Clint yells, hooking Tony’s chair with his uninjured foot and pulling it closer. Tony is slumped down in the chair, passed out. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he gets up so he’s kneeling on one leg to pull Tony down on the floor with him. Tony lands harder than intended, but it doesn’t wake him up.

They end up in their usual position, Clint against the wall with Tony reclining against his chest between his splayed legs. He can feel the heat from Tony’s body, practically burning through his clothes.

“Oh, shit Tony, you’re burning up.” He cups Tony’s forehead, hot to the touch and he can hear the raspy wetness of each breath. Backup better arrive soon, because Tony is not in good shape. A twinge of pain shoots up his leg; and he’s not any better.

***

A heavy pounding at the door jolts Clint awake, wincing as the motion irritates his wounds. Tony is still in his arms with no apparent change in his condition. His lips look a lot drier. When’s the last time either of them had any food or water?

“Clint? Tony? Are you guys in there?” Steve’s voice comes through the wall faintly and Clint’s never been gladder to hear him.

“Yeah! Help!” He tries to call out but only manages a croak. It’s apparently enough for Steve’s super-serum hearing, because the door is subsequently ripped off of its hinges and all he sees is green. Huh, Tony was right; it did take a Hulk to get in here. He giggles to himself.

He hears the beep of one of the Avengers communicators. “I’ve got them, Nat. They’re in bad shape. Send Thor to me for immediate evac and have medical on standby in the jet and back on the carrier.” Steve is taking charge, that’s good. Clint can’t do this anymore. He just wants to be home with Tony. Tony!

“Tony?” He manages to get out, eyes finally focusing on Steve’s baby blues, full of concern. There’s a hand checking his pulse at his wrist and migrating to grasp his shoulder, comforting and warm and he can’t help but lean into it to soak it up. They are safe now, he and Tony both.

“Thor’s coming, Clint. He’s going to take Tony straight to the helicarrier to get help, ok? You’re coming with me but we’ll be right behind him. Don’t worry.” Steve starts to pull on his leg, wrapping something around it and pulling it tight. Too tight, and he cries out in pain. “Sorry, Clint, but you’re bleeding like crazy. You should have put a tourniquet on this right away.”

“Steven, where is Tony Stark? Mjolnir and I are ready to take him to the helicarrier,” Thor’s voice booms in the small room and Clint suddenly remembers that he needs to kick Thor’s ass for eating the last of the pop-tarts. But then Tony is being lifted away from him and he whines at the loss, reaching a hand out. No, he can’t lose Tony now. Not when they’ve survived this much.

“It’s ok, Clint. We’re going to get Tony help, alright? You too, up we go.” Clint is hauled to his feet, but he accidentally steps forward onto his bad leg, causing pain to wash over him and he blacks out.

***

He wakes to a bright, warm room and a pleasant absence of pain. Knowing instantly that he’s safe and probably at SHIELD medical or Tony’s private hospital wing at the Tower, he opens his eyes. Steve is instantly at his side, as if he’s been waiting for the slightest sign of consciousness.

“Hey, Clint, how are you feeling?”

“Fine,” he croaks out, grimacing at the rough, dry rub of air in this throat. Steve moves away and comes back to hand him a cup with a straw. As he takes it, he feels Steve moving the bed so that he’s sitting up and can easily drink.

“Thanks. How long have I been out?” He asks as soon as his throat feels less dry than the Sahara at noon.

Steve sits in a nearby chair, his delivering bad news solemn face out in full force. “Two days.” At Clint’s surprised squawk, he continues. “You lost a lot of blood and they were worried about infection since it was obvious you hadn’t been eating or drinking water. We figure you were missing for nine days.”

Clint’s shocked. It felt like both an interminably long time and like no time had passed at all in that cell, especially considering he had hardly left it. Two full days of unconsciousness also explained how much better he felt.

“And Tony?” He almost hesitates to ask, remembering how sick the man had gotten there at the end.

“He’s in bad shape, but he’ll be ok,” Steve says plainly but Clint needs more than that. He glares at Steve without blinking until the man gets the point and expands. “Well, he’s woken up a few times, but he’s completely delirious. It’s the fever, but they’ve got him on all sorts of things to get it under control. There’s not much they can do for the crack on the side of his head, but there’s no serious underlying damage. That must have been pretty bad at first, though, huh?”

“Yeah, his pupils were out of whack and he was having trouble talking and couldn’t remember stuff. When can I see him?” He believes Steve, but he needs to _know_ that Tony is safe, too.

Steve shakes his head, but he isn’t telling him no. “Anytime. He keeps asking for you and he’s not lucid enough to listen to anything. It would probably help if you feel up to switching rooms. We put him in his own bedroom hoping some of the familiarity would soak in, but having you would probably be best.”

Clint’s heart swells at the thought that Tony wants him nearby, needs him, but he’s also instantly worried that he’s still delirious and very sick. “Have they diagnosed him with anything?”

“Pneumonia, paired with a serious concussion.  They’re still trying to get the fluid out of his lungs – do you know how that happened?”

“They hosed him down and tased him. Right in front of me. I thought he was going to die. The –“ he has to pause to collect himself and clear his throat from how thick it’s gotten. “The arc reactor was flashing. Failing.”

He turns his face away from Steve, not keen on showing how much this is affecting him, as he wipes away a couple of fat tears that are sliding down his cheeks.

“I’m sorry, Clint. I had to ask.” Steve is quiet, apologetic. “He’ll be ok, he’s just in rough shape right now. I’ll take you down, ok? Just down freak out about how he looks. He’s even got a tube up his nose that’s feeding him because we can’t get him to take anything orally without him throwing up.”

Steve steps away to grab a wheelchair that Clint glares at, making the other man hold up his hands in surrender. “Not my idea, but you can’t put any weight on that leg and you have four bruised ribs and one cracked one. I don’t think crutches are going to feel great.”

“Ooooh.” He can remember being in pain from those things but he doesn’t really feel it right now. “Must be some really good drugs then.”

In the end, he lets Steve help him out of the bed and wheel him down the hallway. “Oh, hey, what took you guys so long to find us?” He finds it incredibly difficult to believe that it actually took Tony’s distress signal for them to be found. The Avengers and all of SHIELD’s resources couldn’t find a bunker with less than ten people in it?

Steve has the decency to look abashed, rubbing at the back of his neck and ducking his head. “Well, we were all out on missions, actually. Everyone but Bruce, and he feels awful but he hardly comes up to the common floors without nagging. Hill is the only person who noticed when Tony didn’t return her request for some file decryption, but as liaison and technically working for Tony she had trouble gathering resources to find you. But… you know what? There’s no excuse. We should have noticed. I’m sorry.”

Clint accepts the apology even though he’s a little sad that almost no one noticed the two of them missing. Shouldn’t that be SHIELD’s responsibility, though? Maybe not, since they aren’t officially part of that anymore. “It’s fine, Steve. We’ll work something out later. I need to see Tony.”

Nerves fill his stomach and he’s practically wringing his hands in his lap by the time they get from the medical floor up to Tony’s penthouse. It’s uncharacteristic and he hates it, but he’s worried about Tony. The man had been running on pure steam for days when they had finally been rescued.

Bruce is just exiting Tony’s bedroom as Clint’s wheeled around the corner. He looks more frazzled than usual, face gray and strained with stress. It looks like he might cry when he sees Clint. Clint knows what that is: guilt. Been there, done that. This wasn’t Bruce’s fault.

“Hey Bruce,” he calls out, hoping it sounds normal.

“Clint, hi. I’m..I’m so…” Clint knows an apology is coming but it isn’t what he needs right now and, in his opinion, there’s nothing to forgive.

“It’s ok, Bruce. Wasn’t your fault.” He waves a hand through the air lazily. “How’s Tony?” He can’t even help that he’s leaning forward in the wheelchair, unconsciously trying to get closer to his friend.

Bruce runs a hand through his messy hair. “He’s feverish, still, and whatever is going on in his mind isn’t letting him rest. He’s fighting everything. I hate the idea of sedating him more, but I may have to if he doesn’t calm down.”

“Let me see him.” There’s a thought floating in the back of his mind; Tony wasn’t lucid during their rescue and his subconscious might believe they’re still trapped in that cell, but now he’s alone. Bruce hesitates and for a moment Clint thinks he may have to run him over with the chair, but then he nods and steps aside.

Steve makes as if to push him in but Clint stops him with a look. “I got this Steve. Give us a minute?”

“We’ll be up here if you need us.” Steve has his concerned brow furrow going on. One of these days his face is going to get stuck like that. Clint waits until the two are out of sight in the penthouse living room area before he wheels himself into the soft light of Tony’s bedroom.

The heavy blackout curtains were drawn and one of the lamps on a nightstand was lit. Most people expect Tony’s room to be opulent and gaudy even though the iron man armor is the most ostentatious thing about the man. His lab, cars, and the rest of his spaces are decorated simply and cleanly. Blues, blacks, and modern lines. Clint knows better. This is his first time being in Tony’s room, but the low bed with a plain black headboard and soft blue coverlet is exactly what he expected.

Tony lay on the side of the bed near the light and he looked awful. Pale and bruised with IV’s in the crook of one arm, another tube going up his nose (that’s probably the feeding tube, those are the worst), and an oxygen cannula over his mouth. His small cries and moans are still audible, though, as he twitches and flinches in his disturbed sleep.

“Tones,” he says, his heart breaking and is surprised when Tony stops moving at the sound of his voice. He wheels closer, grabbing Tony’s hand in between his own. “Tony, can you hear me? It’s Clint. I’m here now and we’re safe. We’re out and we’re safe. You got us out, buddy.”

It’s totally not his imagination, Tony _is actually calming down as he speaks!_ He brings Tony’s hand up and kisses it fervently, suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. It’s probably his own shock at their kidnapping and torture catching up with him. Rubbing his face against Tony’s hand, he realizes that the other man is shivering though sweat stands out on his forehead and neck.

The fever. Another blanket won’t help, so Clint slowly eases himself off of his chair and onto the bed. He snuggles in behind Tony so he won’t disturb his IVs and pulls him tight to his chest. His ribs twinge a bit, but he can feel Tony’s muscles relaxing into his embrace and his shivers lessen.

“Clint,” Tony murmurs his voice soft and distorted behind the oxygen mask. Clint pauses and looks at his face, but Tony’s still out.

“Sshh, babe. I’m right here.” He kisses Tony’s sweaty temple, the faint salty taste clinging to his lips. “I’m not going anywhere.”

***

Clint wakes to darkness and Bruce’s shadowy figure hovering over the bed. “Bruce?” He mumbles, rubbing his eye with one arm. The other is trapped beneath Tony’s warm body.

Bruce smiles at him fondly. “Hey, how are you feeling?” He asks quietly while changing out a bag hanging on Tony’s IV pole.

He takes quick mental stock, finally feeling the steady ache of his cheekbone and ribs. “Been better,” he shrugs. “But been worse, too.”

“Need any painkillers?” Bruce reaches into his bag on the nightstand and pulls out a bottle of aspirin, Clint’s preferred brand. He doesn’t like the heavy stuff, the way it seems to linger and cling to him, keeping him fuzzy and sleepy.

“Yeah, two?” Bruce shakes two pills into his hand and waits until he’s dry-swallowed to pass over a chilled bottle of water. He chugs half of it until he has to stop and gasp for air.

“How’s Tony?” He doesn’t feel as hot as before against him, and he looks like he’s sleeping peacefully but he’s no doctor.

Bruce looks genuinely happy, so that’s a good sign. “He’s better. The two of you have slept for over 10 hours now and so far that’s a record for him. I think he’ll regain consciousness today and when he does we can remove the feeding tube and the IV in exchange for oral antibiotics.”

“Wow, that’s awesome news.” Clint is honestly floored. That’s a heck of a lot better than yesterday, he can tell just by the change in Bruce’s demeanor.

“It’s you, Clint. He’s getting better because you’re here and I’m glad for that.” Clint must look confused because Bruce continues seriously. “I hope you stick around and not just because I’m sick of him talking at length about the musculature of your arms.”

It’s so ridiculous and so _Tony_ that he laughs out loud; until he feels the man in question stirring next to him. He and Bruce sober instantly, their focus on their friend.

“Tony?” Clint asks. “Are you awake? Can you open your eyes for me? If you wake up we can get some of these tubes out of you, Bruce promised.” Somehow he has Tony’s face in his hands and he’s stroking a fever-flushed cheek with his thumb. It should be too intimate, but after their kiss in the cell he doesn’t care. From what Bruce just said, they’ve been dancing around this for far too long.

Tony’s face scrunches up as he probably is just noticing all the tubes stuck in his body, but then his eyes open, immediately finding Clint’s. They’re wide and brown and a little glazed from illness and unconsciousness but his pupils are normal and there’s _joy_ reflected there.

“Hey Tony,” Clint whispers, feeling so much happiness and relief bubbling up in his chest that he can’t speak aloud even if he wanted to.

“Hi,” Tony croaks back weakly.

They’re having a moment, staring into each others eyes, but it’s broken by Bruce’s relieved sigh as he plonks himself onto the floor next to the bed, head resting near Tony’s hand. “For crying out loud, you guys! Either of you put me through that again and I’ll lock you in the hulk-tank for a week.”

Clint’s eyes are wide in surprise, but he can see Tony grinning through the mask so he just cackles and throws his head back on the pillow.

***

It takes a couple weeks for Tony to recover enough to move out of his bedroom. Just in time, too, the inventor was starting to get antsy with the lack of mental stimulus. Clint did his best to keep him occupied with games and conversation, movies, and playing around with the holographics of different arrow designs.

They spend a lot of time cuddling and talking. They’ll talk and talk until Tony’s antibiotic and painkiller cocktail knocks him out. Tony hates it and complains every time Bruce brings them to him, but Clint just ever so casually mentions how much he’d like to actually take Tony _out_ on a date and he begrudgingly complies.

It’s true, he wants to take Tony out, maybe have a picnic in Central Park and do something ridiculous like rent a tandem bicycle but until Tony’s completely recovered, though, they’re stuck inside. They’re sitting on the couch, Clint shoved sideways against the armrest with Tony lounging against his chest with a blanket wrapped around them, when the question arises.

“Tony?” He runs his hand through Tony’s hair to rouse him from his light doze.

“Hmm?” Tony rubs his face absently against Clint’s sternum.

“That day we went for donuts, what were you trying to talk to me about?”

Tony stills, then bursts into laughter. It’s short-lived because he’s still having some lingering respiratory issues from his pneumonia. He sits up a bit, holding himself above Clint, grinning. “I was going to ask you out. I like you, have for a while. Didn’t really notice that you might have felt the same until fairly recently.”

Clint just smiles and pulls Tony in for a kiss. “You’re adorable.” Tony melts against him and they kiss, long and soft. Their tongues mingle in a leisurely dance and they break for breaths frequently, for Tony’s benefit. They make out until Tony starts to tire, laying on Clint’s shoulder, and the kisses become even slower and softer.

Clint snickers to himself and plants one last kiss against Tony’s lax lips; he got the couch cuddles he wanted after all.

 


End file.
